


pangram

by threefouram



Category: Noli Me Tangere & Related Works - José Rizal
Genre: Alphabet-Themed Drabbles/Oneshots, Angst, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Romance & friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-01 10:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 8,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10920225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threefouram/pseuds/threefouram
Summary: There's Isagani, who has always been in love with the water, and Basilio, who has always been in love with him. And there's Crisostomo, who has enough faith in the universe, and Elias, who has enough faith in him. And there's Placido, honor student, and Juanito — always cracking jokes, always tripping over his own feet, always laughing it off, always asking for the answer, always making honor students fall in love with him.or: in which they love their country, but also, each other.if you're only here for a certain pairing, just check the chapter titles.





	1. apples (juanito/placido)

**Author's Note:**

> pan·gram /ˈpanɡram/ n.  
> from the Greek παν γράμμα ( _pan gramma_ ), meaning 'every letter.'
> 
>  
> 
> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saaille).

"Juanito," Placido exasperates, "for the last time, Mt. Fuji is in Japan."  
  
The grocery store, really, is no place to be having a Geography debate, but this is his life now. Placido has to live with this idiot that's made it to college somehow— He swears, sometimes, that money was involved, but even Juanito has his moments so more often than not, he dismisses that theory.  
  
Juanito crosses his arms over his chest as though he were a child.  
  
"You're not about to throw a tantrum in a grocery— I'm not your mother." Juanito matches his inner child with the best pout he can muster. "Don't give me that look. Who failed Geography between the two of us?"  
  
"Well," Juanito huffs back. He points indignantly to the sign above the apples. "It says these Fuji apples came from China, and Fuji apples come from Mt. Fuji. Therefore, Mt. Fuji is in China."  
  
Placido rolls his eyes. "I don't know what's worse: the fact that you think Mt. Fuji is in China, or the horrible logic you used to prove it."  
  
"Transitive Property, Placiding."  
  
"Whatever, Juanito."  
  
"For the record, I know you're not my mother." His smile is smug, and makes Placido narrow his eyes. "Wouldn't kiss her like I kiss you."


	2. boys (elias/ibarra)

Crisostomo Ibarra is rich. Ergo, he can afford a lot of things.  
  
He can't, however, afford to be  _absolutely fucking gay_ for the grandson of the man his grandfather loathes, or for that lower-middle class boy that sits behind him in class, or for that smart ass that constantly shows him up in History class, or for his best friend— and definitely not if they're  _the same fucking person_.  
  
He sees his predicament to present him with two problems for his grandfather.  
  
Problem Number One: He's gay. He's gay. Fucking  _hell_ , he's gay.  
  
Problem Number Two: He wants to hold Elias' hand and never let him go, which not only blends in real well with the first, but also makes it a hundred times worse.  
  
They're best friends, only they don't spend as much time out of school as they would like. They simply can't be seen being friendly in any sort of way because of how their families have wired hem— This means Crisostomo has his driver pick him up, and Elias commutes home with his twin sister. This doesn't stop him from taking his time to clear his things after classes are dismissed on a regular Wednesday afternoon, knowing fully well that the other boy is always the last one out.  
  
" _Elias!_ "  _Subtle, Ibarra_ , he thinks sarcastically at himself,  _subtle_.  
  
The boy in question looks at him, raises an eyebrow.  
  
" _Uhh_ _..._ " This is the only place he'll get to do this until they finally decide to stand up to their grandfathers. (Which, that doesn't seem to be happening soon given the  _respect your elders_ mentality that can seem a little suffocating sometimes.) "So, uhh... I like boys. I mean, I'm gay."  
  
"Oh," Elias says.  
  
"Oh?"  
  
Elias laughs— and somewhere in the sound that Crisostomo gets lost in, a hand lands on his shoulder. His hand feels like it belongs there, but Crisostomo Ibarra is fucking _gay_ and also wants to take it in his and go on walks toward the horizon and fall in love. "That's kind of perfect. Well," Elias chuckles, "I suppose  _you're_ kind of perfect. You like boys, and I like you."  
  
  



	3. chameleon (juanito/placido)

When you're dating Juanito Pelaez, and he starts off conversation with, "You're scared of lizards, right?" the right thing to do is not entertain him and his ridiculous ways. (Because, really, the stupid things that come out of his mouth are more often than not related to the stupid things that he does. Juanito Pelaez does not speak in hypotheticals.)  
  
This is not what Placido Penitente did.  
  
"Yes," he says suspiciously, dragging out the vowel sound. "Though... I'm afraid to ask what the  _hell_ you could have done."  
  
"I want you to meet my pet chameleon."  
  
The next thing Placido knows, he's being dragged into a room with this large terrarium right at the center. (He rolls his eyes internally, because of course this boy's rich enough to have an entire room dedicated to his reptilian friend.) Its head turns to him, and he wants to bolt straight out but Juanito's grip holds him where he is.  
  
He grits his teeth. "I know it's not a lizard, but this isn't fucking funny, Pelaez."  
  
"If I get you out, will you go to prom with me?"  
  
Placido looks at him for ten seconds, and then his gaze turns cold. He flips their hands around, so that his hand is now clutching at the other boy's wrist.  
  
"I love you?" Juanito yelps.  
  
Placido yanks him through the door and out of that room. "You put me in a room with a fucking reptile to make sure I'd go with you to prom?"  
  
"His name is Frank."  
  
"Wipe that smug look off your face."  
  
Juanito grins. "You know, some people would call me a romantic."  
  
"Well, I'm not some people."  
  
"No," the smile on his face grows, "you're not."


	4. dreams (elias/ibarra)

It is not that he did not want safety, it is just that perhaps he thought he could bend the word into what he needed it to be.  
  
Lines got blurred sometimes. Maybe he needed  _him_ to be safety.  
  
And that was how things went, in a way.  
  
In a way. Because it was not that _he_  had meant safety for anything more than a second— one does not really stay safe for long, not living the way he is, at least. (Because it was not that they had had anything for anything more than a moment.) It was that safety had meant losing _him_ — and he does not have much to lose these days.  
  
But for a moment, in his sleep, he can see the sunrise— and the silhouette of a man who would never wake up to see another.  
  
He has had many dreams about the lake, and most of them are quite sad.  
  
In this one, when he stumbles into the forest with all the grief of a man who had lost a deep-rooted companionship, some sort of love, the chance to set things straight the way his ancestors never did— when this happens, all is not lost after all. He arrives to see a young boy weep to his heart's content, dirt on his palms and his shirt and his heart.  
  
But, the young boy casts a glance to a man he knows, smiles, even though it is sad. He smiles, too, even though it is sad.  
  
The smile only lasts as long as his sleep.  
  
The young boy is a young man now, studying in the field of medicine. He brands the young man's writer-friend as idealistic, and he feels his stomach churn thinking about what it is like to have that kind of fire in one's eyes. He thinks of everything he has been through, and he knows that the writer and the young man may not exactly see eye to eye. He knows that kind of idealism.  
  
The young man does not even recognize him at first. He is a new person like this.  
  
When he comes down from the upper deck, trading the tales and lore of the lake, he leans against the side of the boat. " _Nanaginip ako_ ," he chuckles out wistfully, watching the waters swirl around, " _hindi mo ako iniwan_." His fists are balled at his sides. He is not the man he wanted to be. He is not the man  _he_ would want him to be. But, it is too late now.  
  
Life goes on, even though it is sad.


	5. easy (juanito/placido)

Placido Penitente is not a natural at this whole academic thing, but he does work hard. And, with working hard and the right luck, his efforts tend to pay off in the end.  
  
"I thought that test was easy," Placido had told his seatmate, who shrugged and gave him an  _it was okay_ type of gesture. He checked for his backmate's opinion, only to get the same half-disagreement that he had before.  
  
This went on for the next four and a half minutes as he attempted to find someone in class that would agree with him.  
  
The last person to ask is Juanito Pelaez.  _Always cracking jokes_ Juanito,  _always tripping over his own feet_ Juanito,  _always laughing it off_ Juanito,  _always asking for the answer_ Juanito,  _always making honor students fall in love with him_ Juanito— except that last one, maybe.  
  
Placido walks up to him, sitting on the desk part of his armchair, and immediately Juanito furrows his brows. "You're talking to me?"  
  
"Was the test easy?"  
  
Juanito laughs so hard that it creates butterflies in someone else's stomach and sets them all kinds of wild— unfortunately for Placido, someone else is him. "Yeah, sure," he chimes in sarcastically, "and you're in love with me."  
  
Placido looks at him.  
  
Juanito stops laughing.  
  
Placido narrows his eyes. "So, easy then."


	6. friends (basilio/isagani)

When Basilio's mother dies, Isagani doesn't offer to kiss it better.  
  
He offers, instead, a much needed hug and a box of tissues even though everyone says that boys don't cry.  
  
He also goes to the funeral with him. He shies away from the people he does not know, but makes time to offer his sympathies to Basilio's little brother, Crispin, when Basilio goes out for some fresh air. (He doesn't follow or make a scene, just offers a small smile, makes sure the other man knows that he's there.)  
  
A man walks into the room, and suddenly the idle chatting hushes down. Isagani feels that he knows why.  
  
He busies himself with his coffee, only watching the man sit down at the far back from his peripheral vision. He listens to the white noise of people talking get louder as he leans against the wall with a mild headache. Isagani glares at his cup, as though it did anything wrong.  
  
Basilio comes back after twelve minutes and forty-six seconds, and Isagani immediately engages him in pointless small talk.  
  
He furrows his brows suspiciously.  
  
Isagani continues talking, steers Basilio away from that one corner of the room. He offers the other man his coffee, to which he is politely declined.  
  
" _Gani_ ," he says in a whisper. "What are you doing?" But Basilio is already looking over his shoulder, eyes wandering before gravitating to the man that looks entirely out of place. The man's head is hung low, but he at least looks more put together than the last time Basilio had seen him.  
  
" _Basilio_ —"  
  
"I didn't think he'd make it," Basilio tells him quietly. "The invitation was formality. I didn't...  _I didn't think he'd bother to show up_."  
  
Isagani leads him to the door. Basilio takes one last look behind him before following out.  
  
They hold hands, and really, that's all there is to the world. (That, and the way the rings on their fingers glisten against the moonlight.)  
  
He asks if Basilio would like to talk to his father. Basilio shrugs, trying to swallow his confusion together with the lump in his throat. He nods, diverting the topic to talk about the flowers on the ground and how they simply seem to glow at night. He does not know, at first, if that is the right thing to do, but his poetic tendencies manage to get a smile out of the other man. He smiles, too.  
  
When they walk back in, there's significantly less people and the man has left a mass card in his wake.  
  
Basilio puts it with the rest of them when everyone disappears, sits next to his brother.  
  
Isagani watches from the wall.  
  
"Did you talk to him?" Basilio asks Crispin.  
  
The younger man nods. "He was looking for you, actually."  
  
Crispin's face doesn't give away any context— whether or not that was a good thing— so he finds himself asking, "What did he want?"  
  
"To talk,  _kuya_."  
  
Basilio goes silent. "Well," he clears his throat. "I've wanted to talk all my life, and _nothing_. I think he can bear to wait a while. I don't..."  
  
Crispin gestures to the man leaning against the walls. "He wanted to talk to him, too."  
  
Isagani raises his head, a startled expression on his face.  
  
"Wanted to make sure you kept  _kuya_ in line," Crispin laughs out softly. "That he wouldn't make the same mistakes that dad did."  
  
"I'll make my own mistakes, thank you very much," Basilio grunts. "I'll talk to him, don't worry. I just..." he trails off. Silence lapses over them. He moves to stand up, stretches out a hand to help his little brother do the same. "Have a good night, Crispin.  _Mag-ingat ka_."  
  
It takes a few moments before the younger man leaves, but eventually the two of them head over to their car and sit in a comfortable kind of silence.  
  
" _I've wanted to talk all my life_ ," Basilio repeats. "I've wanted to..."  
  
Isagani nods, starts the car. "You ready to go home?"  
  
" _Please_."  
  
  
  
When a few months pass, Basilio asks why he did not kiss him once through all of that, genuinely curious.  
  
Isagani shrugs, tells him it didn't feel like the right thing to do.  
  
  
  
When a few more months pass, it's been a year since her passing away and almost a year since the funeral.  
  
Isagani visits her grave at six in the morning with an assortment of flowers that he lays down on the ground. For a moment, he is silent, but once he starts talking— well, it's hard to stop. He tells her that her son misses him everyday, but he's a lot happier than he was a year ago so she didn't have to worry. He tells her about his fondest memories with Basilio, and the silly ones that make him laugh have the wind blowing by. He is convinced that she is laughing, too.  
  
Basilio comes by at half-past nine and sits on the patch of grass next to him, asks him how long he's been here.  
  
Isagani looks at Basilio, really looks at Basilio. "I've always been here."  
  
"I know."


	7. goldfish (basilio/isagani)

Basilio does not know Isagani to be a particularly impulsive guy. He had his moments, sure, but spontaneous simply was not his thing.  
  
This is why Basilio is a bit perplexed at how Isagani walks into their house at three in the afternoon, with a fishbowl tucked into his arms— goldfish and minimal decorations included. He has this grin on his face that Basilio can't explain. Most of his teeth are in show, and there's a giddiness that radiates off of him.  
  
" __Gani—"  
  
"Do you like him?" There's a gleam in his eyes that likens to that of a child.  
  
Basilio sighs, "Yes, but—"  
  
"His name is Basilio."  
  
" _Isagani_ ," Basilio makes sure to drag out the syllables in his name. "You are not naming the fish after me."  
  
"His name is Basilio."  
  
"Gani,  _no_."  
  
The goldfish, Basilio, makes a little splash when Isagani tells it his name.


	8. help (elias/ibarra)

When it was three in the morning and he had sent a vague message that read  _elias_ , Crisostomo Ibarra had thought up the many ways that things could go. The other boy would reply worriedly, or call to make sure he was okay, or he would be asleep, or his phone would be dead— The possibilities, really, were not that endless.  
  
What he did not think of was the possibility of his  _best friend, maybe boyfriend_ showing up at his door, naked from the waist up, just seven minutes later. The boy is breathing heavily, and sweat is rolling down his neck— because of course, he _ran_. "You called for help?"  
  
"I don't think I asked him to show up nude."  
  
" _Half_ nude," Elias corrects, as though that helps him in any way. "Are you okay?"  
  
"Why are you up this late?"  
  
"I could ask you the same question," he shrugs. "But I already asked you one, and you haven't answered."  
  
"I don't..." Ibarra stammers, arms wrapped around himself. "I just... You can go home, Elias. I though you would answer, or call, or—"  
  
"Are you  _okay_?"  
  
"I don't... know."  
  
Elias sighs, chewing at his bottom lip. "Will your  _lolo_ absolutely murder me if he finds me in your room in the morning?"  
  
He laughs weakly. "He'll probably kill me, too."  
  
"Well, we can't have that. I really like you alive, you know."  
  
"I like you alive, too."  
  
Elias presses a kiss onto Ibarra's forehead, a smile on his lips even as he pulls away. They share the moment (and though it is short-lived, it would have to do as he can feel sleepiness begin to claim the other boy). He sprints all the way back to his house in six minutes and forty-seven seconds. He wonders briefly if he was any help at all before shaking his head.  
  
Being there should be enough for now.


	9. ice (basilio/isagani)

" _Isagani_ ," Basilio whines, dragging out the 'i' sound. "There's no ice in my  _iced_ tea."  
  
Isagani's eyes flit over to him, all tired and bored. "In case you haven't noticed, we live in a tropical country and there's this thing called melting."  
  
Basilio huffs, crosses his arms over his chest. "That's the problem. It's like, really fucking  _hot_ ," he complains. There's enough sweat just between the two of them that easily proves this, not that it's necessary. "We live in the Philippines, and we're out of ice. It's like we're asking to melt off the face of the earth."  
  
"Too bad."  
  
"You don't care, do you?"  
  
Isagani sighs loudly, looking back at him with the same bored expression he has been wearing all day. "Truth?" he asks sarcastically. "Not really, no."  
  
"If you come with me to buy some ice, I'll buy you ice cream," Basilio offers. Isagani doesn't cave in the slightest. " _And a new book_."  
  
The writer cracks a smile. "Turns out," he says as he gets up, "I care very much about our little ice dilemma."  
  
"I  _hate_ you."  
  
"Mhmm," he hums back disbelievingly. "Of course you do."


	10. juggling (juanito/placido)

Juanito claims to have a lot of party tricks.  
  
For instance, he can bend his thumb to meet his wrist. And, he can lick his elbow but only the left. And, he can make various shapes with his tongue or reach his nose with it. And, he can perform certain magic tricks and other useless things involving water and playing cards and paper clips. That said, all week he has been trying to show his boyfriend all of said pointless tricks.  
  
Today's party trick is juglling.  
  
Except, Juanito isn't just about to juggle— He's about to juggle three fragile ceramic balls that Placido's mom had gotten them when they moved in.  
  
In a way, Placido is just grateful that they're not knives.  
  
"Juanito," he says, with a wavering calm to his tone. "Juanito... dear, darling, babe— I love you,  _please put those down_ , Jesus Christ."  
  
Juanito looks at him like he considers it momentarily. Until he breaks out into an ear-splitting grin. His eyes spell mischief as he throws a wink at the other man. "Watch this."  
  
Placido does no such fucking thing.  
  
Thirty-three seconds later, there's still no shattering sound. He peels one eye open, and then the other— which he belatedly realizes is a mistake. Juanito picks up the pace when he realizes this, and doesn't even bother wiping the smug look off of his face.  
  
There is a lot of glaring for the next six minutes, at least on Placido's end. When Juanito finally puts them down, Placido slaps the back of his head three times. "You  _suck_."  
  
"You love it when I suck."  
  
" _Juanito Pelaez_ , I fucking swear—"


	11. key (juanito/placido)

"Merry Christmas, Placiding," Juanito greets, the small box in his hands stretched out to his boyfriend.  
  
Placido give him one of those rare smiles that people don't even know he has. Juanito has had track record for being overly generous with Placido ever since they had made things official— whether to compensate for constantly being in his face, or just genuinely wanting to shower Placido with his fortune, the man has yet to find out. "I'm glad you didn't go overboard and buy me another car this year," he teases. "Merry Christmas, Juanito."  
  
"Actually," Juanito laughs, scractching the back of his neck. "There's more, but I... This one is the most important."  
  
Placido shakes the box and listens to something rattle inside. "What is it?"  
  
"Open it."  
  
And so he does. The actual box is black, plain and simple and says absolutely nothing about what's inside.  
  
Placido looks at him, and Juanito simply smiles back nervously. "This isn't a proposal, is it?"  
  
Juanito almost chokes on his own spit. "No."  
  
He lets out a sigh, relieved. "Good," he chuckles, "because I love you, but forever is a long time."  
  
" _Hey_ —"  
  
" _Kidding_ ," he hushes Juanito's indignation as he takes off the lid.  
  
A moment of silence passes, and the expectant yet nervous expression on Juanito would be amusing to Placido, if only he wasn't so confused.  
  
"You got me a key? What is this? Key to your heart?" He makes a face. "Because that's incredibly cheesy, even for you."  
  
Juanito smiles. "How else are you going to get into our house?"  
  
"But we don't—  _oh_."


	12. late (basilio/isagani)

No one really likes Mondays, not that he knows of anyway.  
  
He spends the first half of their first class fidgeting, wondering where Isagani is. (Basilio especially does not like Mondays when his boyfriend looks incredibly disoriented and tired the moment he walks into first period, or whatever is left of it.) The second half, he spends casting worried glances at the other boy, who looks extremely sluggish and out of it.  
  
He counts down the sixty minutes of second period, impatiently waiting to be dismissed for their break. He gets irritated looks from anyone within a two-chair radius away from him because of his incessant foot tapping and pen clicking. (The person in front of him has the added bonus of having to ask seven times to get him to pass his homework.)  
  
No one really likes Mondays, not that he knows of. But this boy— This boy, he likes a lot.  
  
"You were late to class," he states as they walk off into the hallways.  
  
Isagani could read between the lines, find that really, the other boy is asking why. But, he merely heaves out a sigh. "Don't remind me."  
  
"You didn't do the assignment."  
  
" _Basilio_."  
  
He stops walking, and Isagani takes four and a half steps before realizing this. "You look like  _shit_."  
  
Isagani's eyelids are halfway to giving up on him. He rolls his eyes. "What every guy just wants to hear," he chimes sarcastically, trying to rub the exhaustion out of his eyes.  
  
"I know, I'm every man's dream," Basilio retorts flatly. "Are you okay?"  
  
The writer gives him this half-shrug. He has on this defeated look that matches the hunch in his shoulders. "Maybe."  
  
"Okay, maybe." He gives Isagani a once over. "Okay, I love you."  
  
"I love you, too, I..." Isagani simply hates that they're doing this in the middle of the hallways, but he would care a lot more if he wasn't so exhausted and done with life. (They're lucky that a lot of these people are hungry, and would rather rush to get some food rather than stick around to watch this scene unfold.) "I'm sorry, I'll be okay, I promise—"  
  
"It's okay," Basilio hushes him, before he can start rambling. "You'll be okay."


	13. midnight (juanito/placido)

Placido is not the biggest fan of waking up in the middle of the night, and this is an understatement for the days that he has to be up early in the morning.  
  
Juanito, however, seems to think that midnight is the perfect time to practice his violin. (Juanito says that the moon makes for great company, and that the stars are all the audience he needs. Placido thinks that he's just trying to make the most out of his insomnia.)  
  
He sighs heavily, knowing that the other man is at a point of no return, at least for the night. "Juanito," he tries, "come back to bed and go to sleep."  
  
His words don't break through, just as he had expected.  
  
Placido leans against the wall. Juanito looks to be a silhouette in contrast to the way the moonlight illuminates the sky and comes through the window. He listens to every note bounce off the hallway, watches as his partner plays his heart out. This, Placido notes, is Juanito at both his best and his worst— a clash, of confidence and vulnerability. All him, and no restraint in his bones as he moves with his music.  
  
" _Juanito_ ," goes attempt number two at breaking through the man's reverie.  
  
But, it's half-hearted. After all, Placido doesn't think it would be right— going around, breaking things as beautiful as that.  
  
Juanito has made sure that his violin sounds brilliant in every inch of this house, and Placido simply has not had the time to appreciate it. It sounds beautiful, and the way looks against the glow of the moon is indeed a sight to admire— Only, Placido has to be up in less than five hours.  
  
He continues to listen, the initial irritability of having been woken up beginning to fade away.  
  
The music lulls him slowly back to sleep, out in the hallways with the love of his life doing what he does best.  _I'll dream about this_ , he thinks— because there is no better life he could possibly think of. This is how he wants things to be.


	14. nightmares (elias/ibarra)

It seems, sometimes, that the universe does not know what it is doing. Rest assured, things are going exactly how they are supposed to.  
  
Crisostomo Ibarra has lived many lives. Not all of them are noteworthy, and he has not always lived a life that he can be proud of. In this one, though, he thinks that perhaps happiness is finally within reach— that perhaps he is the man he wants to be.  
  
Only, the past continues to haunt him, and he worries sometimes of becoming a shadow of everything he could achieve and be in this life. It comes to him in fluctuating bouts. Some days, they are waves. These days, they are but a tsunami, and the disaster it leaves behind.  
  
When he closes his eyes, a gunshot resounds in his head. It is loud enough to keep him up for the next four days.  
  
He remembers what fog felt like against his throat, the thickness of the air coming in had kept his sobs contained. His salt water tears were a contrast to the lake— He remembers the way that the fresh water began to bleed red, the way that shouldn't have mattered because he had to keep going— the way it did anyway.  
  
Elias, in this life, has always known him to be especially jumpy around loud, crashing sounds. But lately, every day has been riddled with an abundance of restlessness; every night with enough sleeplessness to keep an entire country awake.  
  
Eventually, on Day Four of his internal meltdown, Elias tells him to take time off work and stay home for the rest of the week.  
  
The intention was good enough, he is certain, but the paranoia really begins to set in when he is left alone with no phone calls or emails to distract him from remembering everything.  
  
When he closes his eyes, he watches everything slip away. It feels real enough that he eventually slips away from consciousness.  
  
Elias gets home a few moments after he comes back to his senses. Light-headedness is all he knows, a fuzzy feeling clouding his orientation. He lets himself be dragged into their room, thoughts far too incoherent and irrational to argue.  
  
Elias had thought, after making sure that he had eaten a decent meal and was properly hydrated, that that would be the end of it. But he is found trembling on their couch at one in the morning, no sign in his wide-open eyes that he is actually there.  
  
A hand grabs at his shoulder. Another reaches for his.  
  
He puts up a fight for a while, before exhaustion takes another hit at him. He swallows the lump in his throat, or at least tries. His vision is slightly hazy, like he has fogged up glass for eyes, but he manages to focus on the dark brown eyes that slowly ground him back to the present. " _I'm right here_."  
  
He laughs weakly. "That obvious?"  
  
It seems, sometimes, the universe has its twisted ways to show us all that we have to be grateful for in this life. Rest assured, things are going exactly how they are supposed to.


	15. obnoxious (juanito/placido)

Placido Penitente has never been late to school.  
  
This, actually, is kind of an understatement. Most days, he's the first one in his classroom and he takes pride in that.  
  
He's not a morning person, really. But, he would much rather be early as opposed to getting to school only to be overwhelmed by a room full of loud teenagers that probably have yet to do their homework. He has the advantage of a little peace and quiet, a lack of the urge to burn the school down out of sheer resentment.  
  
Today, when he walks into the room a little before six in the morning, Juanito Pelaez is already on the seat behind his seatmate. Though, the other boy has his head on his desk and was likely asleep so Placido thinks it to be fine. (Besides,  _Juanito Pelaez_ actually showing some sort of responsibility as a student— It's a rare moment.)  
  
He shrugs it off, trying not to let his thoughts dwell on it. He puts his bag down, gets in his chair, and takes out his new book so he can begin to read the time away. He glances at his watch. (People would begin to arrive in around half an hour or so, and he keeps this in mind as he takes advantage of the silence.)  
  
Seven minutes into his reading, he hears a few muffled sounds and breathing that he can only describe as obnoxious. It's too early, so he lets it pass.  
  
Except it goes on for five more minutes,  _continuously_.  
  
"Do you have to breathe so loudly?" he hisses lowly. He resumes his reading with grit teeth, not at all a fan of talking so early in the morning.  
  
The breathing carries on.  
  
Ten minutes in, and Placido puts his book down. He feels his stomach drop as he curses himself internally. "Juanito?" The obnoxious, heavy breathing has shifted into gasping for air. He looks over his shoulder, and the other boy now has his knees to his chest and shoes on the chair. (A pang of guilt builds up in his gut. Perhaps he was wrong about snapping.) "Juanito, are you okay?"  
  
A grunt— This is the only response he gets. It seems the boy barely has the energy to look him in the eye.  
  
" _Juanito_."  
  
This time, the boy does look up. His eyes resemble glass (and that might just explain how shattered he looks).  
  
He keeps his eyes wide open, like the way his mouth opens greedily for air.  
  
Juanito's shoulders shake visibly, and the force reaches the quiver in his lips. " _M'okay_ ," but it comes out slightly slurred and out of breath. There's a pounding in his skull, and against his ribcage, and— and everything hurts, and there's an overwhelming feeling of slipping away. He can feel the way his skin gets all flushed, tries to focus on that instead of how pathetic he can be.  
  
Placido fights back the urge to argue, though he wants to say something— ask if he truly is okay, apologize for getting irritable. Instead, he stands up from his place, and bends down in front of Juanito's chair. The other boy's breathing is still shallow, but it's less panicked and he thinks that to be a good sign. Juanito's eyes are barely opened now, and he can see that it's an arduous task for the boy to keep them that way.  
  
" _Placido_ ," he rasps out, " _please_."  
  
Placido gives him a helpless sort of expression, not knowing what he needs. "I'm sorry, I don't— I..." He racks his brain, turns it upside down, trying to figure out what he's supposed to do. He heaves out a defeated sigh, watches the boy struggle to catch his breath. "I... We've got about ten minutes before people start to come in. I don't think you even want me seeing you like this, but here I am. Do you want me to take you somewhere else, or I just—" he stammers. "I'm sorry, I'm not much help, am I? Just, what do you—"  
  
" _M'okay_."  
  
They look at each other for entirely too long.  
  
Juanito tries really hard to subdue the trembling in his body, but Placido sees right through. Juanito doesn't need him to worry— He's just having a particularly bad day, or at least that's what he tells himself. Just like he tells himself that his heart is just beating too fast, or he's just taking too little or too much air at a time. It's nothing, he also tells himself.  
  
Placido takes the bottle of water at the foot of the chair, places it on the armchair worldlessly.  
  
The other boy stares, still breathing in all the wrong ways.  
  
The door creaks open, snapping both of them out of the little bubble they seem to have created. Placido looks to the door, waves slightly to the girl that had walked in. Juanito, on the other hand, continues to look at him.  
  
Placido moves to stand up, uses Juanito's armchair to pull his weight up.  
  
Juanito places his hand on the other boy's, who is halfway up on his feet.  
  
Their eyes meet.  
  
Juanito lets his facade click back into place as they both hear a bag drop to the floor. He uncurls himself from a ball. A smirk crawls its way onto his lips, and it almost distracts Placido from the paleness on his skin or the hollow in his eyes. There is a crack in his mask, but you'd only see it if you looked hard enough— or, if you knew exactly where to look. "I always knew you cared."


	16. pens (basilio/isagani)

"I'll be at the pen section," Isagani tells him. (He has to roll his eyes. He doesn't need to be told— Isagani will almost always be at the pens section.) "You go off doing... well, whatever is you do at bookstores. Just, no more buying glitter. Under  _any_ circumstances. Especially after what you did with it last time. I mean it.  _No glitter_."  
  
"Can I get you a glitter pen?"  
  
Isagani actually looks like he considers this for a moment. The writer sighs. "Go nuts."  
  
Basilio grins before shooing Isagani off to the pens.  
  
He looks around for a little while, reading through various blurbs and putting stray books that he spots back where they belong.  
  
He walks aimlessly, and ends up staring at different kinds of tape for five minutes before realizing what he's doing. (In his defense, the glitter was in the next aisle— at least he ended up where he did.) He figures, at that point, that he should probably look at some glitter pens for Isagani.  
  
On the way to the pen section, Basilio stops at the comic books. He checks if there's anything that his brother might like and ends up reading through half of one when he remembers what he set out to do. He puts what he's reading back in its shelf, mentally slapping himself for being so absent-minded.  
  
Before he can get very far, a little girl trips in front of him. He finds this to be somewhat amusing, even moreso when the child laughs as he helps her up. The girl smiles back at him momentarily before resuming her running. He stares at her, bewildered at how resilient and happy-go-lucky children can be. He laughs to himself and shakes his head. " _Kids_."  
  
It's moments later that he realizes she had dropped something.  
  
He crouches down to the bright blue eraser, twirling it in his hands as he walks over to the eraser section. He puts it back where it belongs, almost heads over to find the glitter pens when something catches his eye. He stares for a moment, and the next thing he knows, he has to contain his smile and bite it down to keep it from splitting his face. He doesn't second guess buying it.  
  
He gets to the pen section, and sees Isagani still picking out his choice of writing materials. There's a certain shimmer that he spots from his peripheral— He gravitates toward it, and takes out this yellow glitter pen that smells like lemons.  
  
When he gets to the cashier, Isagani is a few people behind him, so he has to wait.  
  
Isagani, three minutes later, approaches him with a bundle of pens that he didn't have half an hour ago. "What did  _you_ get?" the writer asks suspiciously. "I swear if that's glitter—"  
  
Basilio's grin gets really big. "Okay, so," he says, all giddy as he retells the story of the little girl, and the bright blue eraser, with the same enthusiasm that a child would have. He finally pulls out what he had picked out. It's an eraser. A duck eraser, and it's almost the same shade of yellow as the glitter pen. "Isn't it just  _adorable_? It matches this pen I got you."  
  
"I can't believe you're _real_  sometimes."


	17. questions (basilio/isagani)

There are several reasons why they live where they do.  
  
Reason Number One: the view. From the floor that they're on, they can easily see Manila Bay.  
  
Reason Number Two: the balcony in which one can experience said view. Isagani, after all, has always been in love with the water— and Basilio has always been in love with Isagani.  
  
Sometimes it will be the middle of the night, Basilio wakes up because the bed feels empty. Like tonight, for instance.  
  
He knows that the writer would always be right there, and sometimes knowing is enough. Some nights, he pulls Isagani's pillow in an embrace and goes back to sleep. Nights like this one, he follows after the other with a sleepy smile.  
  
" _Isagani, anong oras na?_ " he asks, trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes.  
  
Isagani's chuckle floats into the air with ease. "Five more minutes, Basilio. Go back to sleep."  
  
Basilio has enough energy to roll his eyes. "How long have you been out here?" He punctuates his sentence with a yawn, standing next to the writer. He can feel the December cold fade away as their arms come in contact.  
  
A shrug.  
  
He leans his head on Isagani's shoulder. "I know the bay is beautiful," he sighs, "but if you want to see something beautiful so badly, just look in the mirror next time."  
  
"Or..." Isagani starts, purposely trailing off. Basilio turns to look at him. "Or, I could look right here."  
  
Basilio shoves at the same shoulder his head was just on.  
  
There's a sort of tranquility that floats around them. The moonlight is all in their eyes, and their lazy smiles, and the way their souls feel whole like this.  
  
"Sometimes..." Isagani says, staring back out into the waters, "You have all these questions, and it feels like you expect me to know all the answers."  
  
Basilio tugs at Isagani's arm, wraps both of his around it. "It doesn't matter if you makes stuff up, you know. I think I'll believe you either way."  
  
"I don't..." The writer sighs, leaning part of his weight against the other man. He breathes in, and out, and in, and out. He does this a few times before his head clears a little, and he finds what he wants to say. "See, I don't think I want that." His gaze is fixated on where the water ends and the sky begins.  
  
"Okay," Basillio nods along. He looks to Isagani. "What do you want?"  
  
Isagani breathes for a moment, continues to marvel at the horizon. "You, I think."


	18. rather (elias/ibarra)

__**tulog na**  
  
'di ako makatulog  
  
**go offline, at least**  
**you have that fucking king sized bed, ba't di mo gamitin**  
**or magbasa ka, andami mong libro dios mio**  
**tingin ka sa labas, ang laki-laki ng bintana mo**  
  
i'd really rather talk to you  
_(kahit rk lang ata tingin mo sa'kin)_  
  
**oh**  
  
sorry  
_late na_  
_matulog ka na kaya_  
_ikaw yata yung inaantok diyan eh_  
  
**i'd rather talk to you too**


	19. study (juanito/placido)

"Oi, Penitente," Juanito Pelaez calls out in the middle of lunch, clasping a hand onto the other boy's shoulder. " _Kailangan ko ng tulong_."  
  
The only reaction he gets is a wince, and his hand being shoved off. He apologizes briefly before moving on to his point.  
  
"So, I hear you're good at Science."  
  
Placido has a bored look on his face. "Yeah? I hear you're failing Science."  
  
"Good," Juanito grins, "we're on the same page, then. I need you to tutor me.:"  
  
"No."  
  
A little desperation cracks through his facade. "Dali na, Placiding?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Placido?" he tries.  
  
The said boy keeps his gaze indifferent, but Juanito notices that he's a little surprised to be called by his real name.  
  
"Please," he almost begs, "my dad is going to kill me."  
  
"I'll be sure to thank him at your funeral."  
  
"Ouch," he puts a hand to his chest. "That's cold."  
  
Placido sighs heavily. "Are you done here?"  
  
" _Please_."  
  
"What's he going to do?" Placido scoffs. "Take away your violin?"  
  
Juanito almost retorts with something sarcastic, but he closes his mouth. "Actually, yes."  
  
More silence, but there's a different look to Placido's eyes; Juanito holds back his smile, tries not to dwell too much on the hope that Placido can help him pull his grades up enough— but  _fuck it_ , he wants to prove to his father that he's not a failure and if that means getting a cute guy to tutor him, he's not complaining.  
  
" _Dali na_ ," Juanito insists, "I'll buy you—"  
  
"Fine," Placido relents. "No need to bribe me. I can't be bought by your riches and charms—" ("Oh, you admit I have charm?") "—besides," he says, ignoring the other boy's smug look, "I know how much you love that stupid violin of yours."  
  
Juanito's relief manifests itself into a sigh. "It's a date."  
  
Placido narrows his eyes. "We're going to study."  
  
He shrugs, grinning his stupid grin that makes Placido want to a) punch him in the face b) kiss it better after. "That's what you think."


	20. telephone (elias/ibarra)

"Elias," Crisostomo Ibarra grunts at him, "no one uses the telephone these days. At least, no one younger than my  _lola_."  
  
He rolls his eyes. "My phone gave up on me. Can't really afford to get it fixed. Not everyone can be as rich as your privileged ass."  
  
Ibarra huffs. "You said you liked my privileged ass."  
  
"I'm hanging up on you."  
  
A moment of silence.  
  
His boyfriend laughs into the phone, and Elias think it's kind of the most beautiful thing he's ever heard in such horrible sound quality. "You're still there, _darling_."  
  
He chews at his bottom lip. "Shut up."  
  
"No, I'm sorry for teasing. Why'd you call?"  
  
He mumbles something out.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I said," he sighs heavily. "I just wanted to hear your voice."


	21. undead (elias/ibarra)

"My head is about to combust, explode, blow up into smithereens—"  
  
"Yes, thank you for the imagery."  
  
"Elias, I feel like  _death_."  
  
"I'm not into necrophilia, so you better stay alive."  
  
" _Elias_."  
  
"Zombies don't sound very appealing either."  
  
" _Elias_."  
  
"I mean— I love you, but I'd rather that zombies stay in your stupid video games—"  
  
"Elias, shut up."  
  
"Okay, feel better soon."


	22. violets (basilio/isagani)

Isagani is immersed in a book when Basilio breaks out in poetry.  
  
"Roses are red, violets are blue— It's a ridiculous naming convention, and everyone knows it's true," Basilio says. "Sugar is sweet, and so are you."  
  
Isagani laughs. (He keeps a finger between his book to mark his place.)  
  
Basilio wants to carve that sound in his ears.  _I did that_ , he grins.  
  
"Actually," the writer begins to say, "it can be traced back to  _The Faerie Queene_. The line was  _she bath'd with roses red, and violets blew,_ as in the wind kind of blew, not the color blue— Lost in translation, I suppose." (Internally, he cringes at how much of a know-it-all he must come off as, but Basilio doesn't seem to mind.)  
  
"Violets are blue, roses are red, violets are blue, _j'aime mes amours_ ," Basilio tries.  
  
"Now you're not even trying to be original," Isagani rolls his eyes, smiling nonetheless, " _a_ _nd_ you're doing it in two languages."  
  
Basilio shrugs. "Okay, I'm done now. You can go back to your book."  
  
Isagani does, and Basilio just watches.  
  
He memorizes every facial expression that the writer makes, from the smiling to the frowning to the downright frustration to the  _who the fuck allowed the author to do that_. (That last one is a personal favorite of Basilio's.)


	23. water (elias/ibarra)

Their families haven't caught on, but it's sure to happen soon enough.  
  
Which is why they're making the most of what they have— while they have it.  
  
It's a late summer night. They're out in this park in Elias' village, and the coolness of the wind and the swing set chains comfort them more than anything. There's a gentle breeze that moves them back and forth, and if this is all they'll ever have— They'll take it. (Because at least in this, there is peace— love, the comfort that they are not alone. There's a million stars in the sky, all they need is one.)  
  
"There's two things that I've found myself believing over the years," Elias breaks the silence. "The first is that the world _must_ revolve around me."  
  
Crisostomo looks over to him. "Hm?"  
  
Elias elaborates. "There's that _center of the universe_ kind of feeling," he says, "The world revolves around you when you're young. And then as you grow older, life tends to hit a lot harder. You realize that it really, really doesn't. Because a little hope goes a long way for a kid, nowadays I don't know if that's enough."  
  
"Life knows what it's doing."  
  
Elias laughs, looks to his side. "You believe that, don't you?"  
  
"Well, I've always had enough faith in the universe for the both of us."  
  
"I've always had enough faith in you."  
  
Crisostomo looks at him with thoughtful, inquisitive eyes, but he only shrugs. There are things that he never means to say, but will always mean.  
  
"They say blood is thicker than water." (Which actually means:  _our families would never allow this_.)  
  
"Maybe," Crisostomo breathes, "but love makes the world go 'round, doesn't it?"  
  
Elias wants to kiss him silly under the moonlight, but then Ibarra beats him to it.


	24. x (basilio/isagani)

"I used to love pirate stories when I was a kid," Basilio says into the silence of their room, staring up at the ceiling.  
  
Isagani shifts on the bed so he's facing him. "Hm?"  
  
"Yeah, I..." Basilio faces him now, too. "My brother and I would make fake treasure maps. Our mom got us this pirate captain hat, and I'd always put it on his head. He loved it, really, even though he wanted me to have a go at it. He smiled so big the first time I put it on, said something along the lines of  _you'd make a far better captain, kuya_. Didn't stop me from letting him be captain every other time after that."  
  
"Sounds like quite an adventure you two had."  
  
"Mm..." he nods, smiling softly. "Mom got so mad when we dug up her garden."  
  
Isagani smiles because he's smiling. "You really love that boy, don't you?"  
  
"Yeah, I guess I do," he breathes. "Really love this boy in front of me, too."  
  
"Basilio?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
Isagani draws an  _x_ over his lips with his thumb. " _X marks the spot_ ," he laughs, right before he moves his mouth to Basilio's.


	25. yesterday (basilio/isagani)

"You weren't at school yesterday," Basilio states, moving to sit next to him.  
  
"How would you know that?" he asks. "We're not even classmates."  
  
Basilio shrugs with a smile. "Maybe I went looking for you."  
  
"Why would you do that?" Isagani furrows his brows.  
  
"Maybe I was going to tell you that I like you."


	26. zoo (juanito/placido)

Placido Penitente likes owls and a rich boy that doesn't know when the shut his mouth.  
  
So far, Placido's birthday isn't exactly turning out to be as uneventful as he thought it would. Waking up was the same, but he didn't exactly plan on answering the door at ten in the morning for a half-naked Juanito Pelaez with several gifts in hand. After throwing countless shirts at Juanito and telling him to  _wear some fucking clothes_ , he somehow ends up here— in a zoo.  
  
"Juanito," Placido groans, looking at all the different animals they pass by in fleeting glances. "We both know that you want to be here far more than I do."  
  
"Yes, but haven't you heard that song?" Juanito asks him, taking a picture of a flock of ducks to send to Basilio.  
  
He looks to his side, not knowing whether to roll his eyes or glare. "What song?"  
  
Juanito clears his throat. " _Happy birthday to you, you belong to the zoo, with the—_ "  
  
"You're unbelievable sometimes," he grumbles out, beginning to walk away. He lets his eyes wander a bit, but ultimately, they gravitate to the lions. There's a glint in his eyes as he says, "Wouldn't mind feeding you to the—"  
  
"I can hear you!" Juanito cries out indignantly as he catches up to the other boy.  
  
Placido chooses to ignore him, and continues to stroll around the area.  
  
Juanito huffs from three feet behind him for all of thirteen minutes, until he sees something from the corner of his eye. "Placiding, look," he says, running up to him as though what he was about to say was important. He points at the man to their right, a bird on his arm. "It's an owl."  
  
Placido's eyes widen. "You're forgiven, I love you." (But love doesn't stop him from leaving Juanito behind to dash toward the damn bird.)  
  
Juanito laughs, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I love you, too."

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/saaille).


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